Kathryn Littlewood - Rose Bliss Cooks up Magic

Rose gasped. She didn’t like being brought here against her will, but she certainly didn’t mind the kitchen itself. It was almost perfect – the only thing missing was a secret pantry of magical blue mason jars like they had back home.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” Mr Butter asked. “This is our test kitchen.”

He snapped his fingers, and a row of men and women in white lab coats, aprons, and chef’s toques marched in from a small door at the far corner of the room labelled BAKERS’ QUARTERS. In perfect unison, the six bakers filed in behind the row of metal prep tables and stood at attention.

The six bakers were all nearly the same height – that is, on the shorter side, just about as tall as Rose herself. And they were all round. You might not notice it if you were just looking at one of the bakers, but seeing them all together in a row, it was clear they all were alike in one way: they were all overweight.

Also, they were smiling. Not like genuinely happy men and women, but more like people whose mouths were being stretched up at the sides by invisible fish hooks.

“Why are they so round?” Gus whispered, cradled in Rose’s arms. “They look as though they might roll away with just one push.”

“Shh,” she replied. “I don’t know.”

Mr Butter sauntered over to the prep tables and leaned in close. “A spot.” He smiled, pointing at the perfectly clean stainless steel surface. “Someone missed a spot.”

Then he snapped his fingers.

One of the bakers gasped, ran to the back wall, and grabbed a fresh towel and some spray. He hurried back to the table and scrubbed vigorously at the spot.

Mr Butter pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket and peered at the tabletop. “Better,” he said. Then he stood straight again, cleared his throat theatrically, and addressed Rose. “These are our very best bakers, specialists in every facet of the creation of our great line of products. They now all answer to you, Rosemary Bliss.”

“Um, OK,” Rose said. The bakers’ eyes swivelled from Mr Butter to Rose. One on the end farthest away from her audibly gulped.

“And this is our Head Baker, Marge.”

The woman standing closest to Rose had round pink cheeks and short brown hair that peeked out from beneath her chef’s toque. Her lips were as plump as maraschino cherries, and her nose was as round as a tiny cupcake. The pockets of her apron bulged with paper and recipe cards.

“I’m Marge, and I’m in charge,” she said. “Let me introduce you to our specialists. This is Ning, he’s our Icing Tech.”

Ning, a gentleman with a black crew cut, pointy eyebrows, and a large mole above his lip, gave Rose a salute.

“This is Jasmine, our CTM – Cake Texture Modifier,” Marge said, moving down the line. Jasmine, a woman with two long black braids, nodded, and the wide grin plastered across her face grew even wider. “The texture of a cake is, as I’m certain you know, the most important thing.”

“Next we have Gene, our VP of Fillings, both marshmallowy and fruity.” Gene had a brown mustache and long, curly hair that he wore tied back in a hairnet.

“And down at the end there,” said Marge, “we’ve got the twins, Melanie and Felanie. Nut Chunk and Sprinkle Maestros, respectively.”

At the end of the line stood two young women with short blonde hair and freckles. They waved to Rose and smiled so widely that Rose could see their gums.

These people are smiling, thought Rose, out of fear . They were all terrified of Mr Butter, she realized.

“That’s it,” said Marge. “That’s the gang.”

“And this,” announced Mr Butter with a flourish of his bony, fishy-white hand, “is Miss Rosemary Bliss, your new FLCP Director.”

“She’s a lot younger than the last one,” said Marge, then rushed to add, “but worthy of our respect all the same!”

Rose furrowed her brow. “FLCP? What’s that? It sounds like the noise Gus makes when he gets a hairball.”

The bakers began to titter good-naturedly.

“FLCPs,” said Mr Butter, “are the things we bake. The products. Dinkies, King Things, all of them – they are all different types of FLCPs: Food-Like Consumer Products.”

“Food- like ?” Rose repeated.

“Because of the mix of preservatives and chemicals we use in our delicious treats, the government has classified them as Not Food, but Food-Like.” Mr Butter shrugged as though he were talking about a minor embarrassment. He winked at Rose. “But you and I both know that the government makes mistakes all the time, don’t we?”

Rose thought about the wrongheaded law that had closed down the Follow Your Bliss Bakery and nodded. “We sure do.”

Marge came around behind her and spotted the grey furball nestled in Rose’s arms. “Wow! A cat!” she cooed, lifting Gus out and cradling him like an infant. “There is nothing I love more on this sweet, sad dumpling of a planet than a funny-looking, alien-eyed, fat cat with crinkled ears.”

Gus wore a look of sheer contempt as he gazed into the eyes of the round-headed baker.

“No cats in the kitchen,” said Mr Kerr, pulling Gus from Marge’s arms and dropping him back inside Rose’s backpack. She heard the Scottish Fold sigh deeply over the ratchet of the zipper.

“Do I start baking now?” Rose asked, eager to get this whole charade over with so she could return to her family. They’d be worrying, she knew.

“That’s the spirit!” said Mr Butter. “But no. It’s too late today. You’ll start in the morning.”

“You expect me to sleep here?” Rose asked, outraged. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Mr Butter gritted his teeth, but said cheerfully, “If you are to perfect the five recipes in the five days we’ve allotted you—”

“Five days?!” Rose repeated, shocked. She had expected to spend a few hours here at the most – not days .

“It’s not enough time for an average baker, I know,” Mr Butter said, stroking his lip, “but are you not the great” – he coughed into his hand – “Rosemary Bliss? The youngest baker to win the Gala blah blah blah?”

“It was the Gala des Gâteaux—”

“Yes, I know what it was called. I said ‘blah blah blah’ to show you that I am not impressed. As I was saying, to make the most of the five days until … well, the five days we have allotted you, you will live here. Your bedroom is up those stairs there, in the office that overlooks the FLCP Development Kitchens. Tomorrow you’ll get started, and Marge and the team will execute your marvelous ideas. The team is always here. If you have an inspirational dream and come up with something brilliant at three in the morning, just wake Marge, and the team will rally behind you.”

“The bakers all live here?” Rose asked, looking around uneasily.

“Of course,” said Mr Butter. “They sleep right back there, in the Bakers’ Quarters. Where else would they live?”

“In town, maybe? With their families?” Rose offered.

“Oh,” said Mr Butter, laughing as though Rose had told a funny joke. “Goodness, no. We are in recipe crisis here, Rose, and recipe crisis requires round-the-clock attention. What are families and homes when there are snack cakes to perfect? Nothing! The only thing that matters – to me, the Mostess Corporation, and to you – is that these recipes be perfected.” He dropped one of his bony hands on her shoulder; it was like having a bag of hangers draped across her back. “The bakers won’t be going anywhere until our little problem is solved. And neither, for that matter, will you. Good night, Rose. We’ll see you in the morning.”

Rose climbed the spiral stainless steel staircase in the corner of the test kitchen, which led to a room suspended from the corner of the ceiling. She could hear Gus snoring from inside of her backpack, so she knew he was OK.